Chapter 410 Sacred Bond Between A Mother & Her Son

STEP SIX: CONTROL THE SOCIAL CALENDAR

Fill his schedule with joint commitments. Every event he attends as a married man is an event he cannot attend as a divorced one. Make leaving logistically impossible.

Onyx was in a tuxedo.

The tuxedo was midnight black satin with gold-thread accents along the collar and lapels. The waistcoat beneath was charcoal, fitted precisely to his chest, tailored around his wings with two discreet openings that allowed full range of motion. A gold collar sat at the base of his neck, polished to a shine that matched his eyes.

He was sitting on Bellatrix’s lap, being fed strips of dried meat from a porcelain dish while Bellatrix drank her morning tea and Petra sat across from her wearing the look of a woman whose job description had expanded beyond recognition.

Petra’s original job description had included three duties: hold the tea, hold the wine, and hold her tongue. She was now managing a dragon’s wardrobe, co-authoring a divorce prevention strategy, and reading The Knotty Omega, which she would have done on her own anyways. But that was beside the point. She deserved a goddamn raise.

Onyx chewed the meat with the deliberate, dignified cadence of a creature who understood he was wearing formal attire and was conducting himself appropriately.

“Step Six,” Petra read. “Control the social calendar. Fill his schedule with joint commitments until leaving becomes—”

“A wedding.”

Petra looked up.

Bellatrix’s eyes had gone wide. The idea had arrived in her skull fully formed, carrying its own luggage, and the luggage was extensive.

Petra recognized the look. The look meant the next thirty minutes were going to be a monologue, and the monologue was going to require more wine.

“A wedding, Petra. That accomplishes Step Six and circles back to Step Four simultaneously. Two steps at once. Efficiency. Tiberon thinks I sit in a chair all day. I am running a goddamn campaign from this chair. I control the calendar because a royal wedding requires months of planning, and I become the favorite parent because I am the one approving the union.”

“A wedding for whom, Your Grace?”

“Dexmon. A retroactive blessing ceremony. No one divorces the woman who planned their son’s wedding, Petra. It is social suicide. It is political suicide. And I will make sure every single person in that room knows I picked the flowers, I chose the music, and I cried during the vows, and if Tiberon wants to serve me papers after that, he can do it in front of five hundred witnesses who watched me weep for love.”

“Oh yes, Dexmon never had a wedding with Princess Serena. She will love-“

“It is not about HER, Petra. It is about my son not having a wedding. If I could do it without the bride, I would. But the point stands. We need her in this for him to get married. So, I am going to formally, publicly, and enthusiastically endorse my son’s relationship. I will plan the ceremony. I will host the ceremony. “

She paused. Reconsidered her own words.

“I approve of his relationship choice,” she said, and the expression on her face while she said it was the expression of a woman swallowing a lemon and calling it dessert. “I will stand at the ceremony and deliver a speech about love and family and the sacred bond between a mother and her son, and every noble in attendance will weep, and the weeping will make divorcing me feel like kicking a puppy.”

Petra could see the effort. The muscles in Bellatrix’s jaw were doing things that muscles should not have to do in the service of a single sentence. ’I approve’ had cost her more than any trade negotiation in thirty years.

Onyx looked up from his meat. Blinked at her. His gold eyes held the steady, unblinking assessment of a creature that had witnessed the statement and found it unconvincing.

“Don’t look at me like that, Onyx.”

Onyx blinked again. The blink was slower this time and carried judgment.

“I said I approve. I did not say I am thrilled. There is a difference, and the difference is the space I am currently occupying, and I am occupying it with grace.”

Onyx returned to his meat. The matter was settled. The dragon had no further comments.

“Write it down, Petra. Royal wedding. The date will be determined by me. The venue will be determined by me. The menu, the music, the floral arrangements, the seating chart, and the color of the napkins will be determined by me. I will need venue options, catering estimates, and a guest list that includes every allied kingdom on the continent.”

“Every kingdom, Your Grace?”

“Yes, Petra. Keep up. I want so many diplomats in that room that Tiberon can’t sneeze without starting an international incident. I want the guest list to be so politically dense that canceling the wedding would require a goddamn summit. The guest list alone will take three months to finalize, which means Tiberon cannot file for divorce during the planning of his own son’s wedding without looking like a man who hates joy.”

Petra opened her mouth. Bellatrix held up a hand, cutting her off.

“Tiberon does hate joy, Petra. I see your point. He has always hated joy. But he cannot be seen hating joy. That is the difference between a private man and a king, and I am about to exploit that difference with a seating chart and a five-tier cake.”

“And if Dexmon objects to the wedding, Your Majesty?”

“Dexmon does not get to object. I am his mother. I carried him for nine months.”

Petra did not write a correction. Petra had learned, in her first week of employment, that biological accuracy and Bellatrix’s narrative accuracy were different systems that operated independently and were never to be reconciled aloud.

Onyx looked up at Bellatrix, tilting his head.

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes at the dragon. “You are wearing a tuxedo that I commissioned. You are eating lamb that I ordered. You are sitting on a cushion that I provided. You do not get to judge me.”

Onyx’s tail flicked once. The flick said: And yet.

“Add flowers, Petra. White roses. Thousands of them. I want that venue to look like heaven threw up in it. I want people to walk in and forget they have problems. I want Tiberon to walk in and remember every single one of his. I want his mother rolling in her crypt.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Onyx settled deeper into Bellatrix’s lap, tucked his tail around himself, and closed his eyes with the full-body contentment of a dragon who had a tuxedo, a cushion, seasoned lamb, and a woman who would burn the world down before she let anyone take him back to that field.

Bellatrix looked down at him. Her hand rested on his back. The satin of his jacket was warm from his scales.

“We are going to win this, Onyx.”

Onyx opened one eye to look at her. Bellatrix understood what he was thinking, damn right we are.